


fear of inked paper

by erzi



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21792238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: "I have to learn my family's techniques," he says, fingers pressing onto Seiji's bony wrist, encircling it, capable of snapping it. Uncomfortable by this intrusion of a thought, Shuuichi steals his hand away and tucks it behind him, guilty eyes on the ground."None of us ever have to do anything," Seiji says, which is the last thing Shuuichi had ever expected of him.Shuuichi flits his head up to see what sort of expression such a statement would bring on the shallow angles of Seiji's face, but if anything other than polished porcelain had ever been there, he'd missed it.
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49





	fear of inked paper

**Author's Note:**

> 2019 natsume secret santa gift for [kazukaart](https://kazukaart.tumblr.com/)!

The paper doll rises from no wind but that which Shuuichi lightly breathes out, that almost-life brought forth by words antiquity carved to use. The doll weakly spins on its longitudinal axis.

Shuuichi frowns; concentration lost, the doll falls. _What am I doing wrong?_ he thinks, crawling on his knees to the scrolls at his left, squinting at them as if the more he restricts his vision, the clearer he will read the ancient text in this darkness barely bettered by the lantern to his right. Its pale light flickers, warping the characters to similar shadows, their meanings changing, the spell differing.

His frown deepens. This is part of the problem: the ancestor of his who had inked this incantation had done it messily, rendering it difficult to decipher. Shuuichi could be interpreting it wrong, saying things that mean nothing at all. No one but himself has taught him to divine the art of exorcism in either its reading or execution.

 _Seiji would know_.

And now his frown is certainly twisting his face into two. He shakes his head of the thought. He will solve this on his own.

He shifts closer to the lantern, reads for the third time, nods to himself with more certainty than he feels, sets the scroll down. Links his hands with his forefingers upright, thumbs tucked along them. Breathes. Speaks.

The doll flutters, dazedly, going to the door. There it beats itself in susurrant thin flaps. Repeatedly, pointlessly, as if it does it enough it will cut through the wood and escape. No such thing will occur; from its futile efforts, it will tear itself apart before it can harm the door.

From the door's other side: polite knocking, sharp in this dullness. Shuuichi again loses his concentration; the doll settles itself lifelessly as he says, mildly annoyed, "Yes?"

"Young master Shuuichi," says Sumi-san, her creak of a voice muffled by the door, "a friend is here to see you."

"A friend?" He has none of those. Except–

"Shuuichi-san," comes an airy voice drifting smugness, "it's me."

A corner of the paper doll quivers.

 _It's me_ , Matoba Seiji had said, making no mention of his name. He hadn't needed to – only one person Shuuichi knows speaks like him – but the nerve of him for assuming so, and being right about it.

Shuuichi rubs dryness from his eyes. "I'll be right out," he says, gathering his things and putting them aside for later. He opens the old storage room's door against its will, and it grates as a rectangular slab of the outside world's light grows in size, two figures revealed against a backdrop of brightness. Shuuichi blinks, adjusting to it, and sees first Seiji's smile as incessantly perfect and far from his eyes as ever.

And the first thing Shuuichi, stepping outside the storage room and closing the door behind him, says to Seiji: "You're not my friend."

Sumi-san gives him a mortified look, but she is not one to rebuke the family she serves. Though there is no need to – Seiji's expression does not change, Shuuichi's milk-tooth of an insult not breaking through his skin.

Shuuichi nods to Sumi-san, who bows her head and shuffles away. When she is gone, a tension undoes itself in Shuuichi's shoulders just to return in the pit of his stomach. "Why are you here?" he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"It's been two weeks since I saw you."

He blinks again. That can't be right. Certainly, he's been in the storage room staring at ancient, illegible texts for... many hours, but he's done other things in that time. He's gone to school. He's eaten dinner in the oppressive box that's the house, his father silent and mechanical where he sat adjacent to Shuuichi. He's slept and dreamed of ancient, illegible texts. He's-

He's not seen Seiji in two weeks.

But what does it matter? They're not friends.

"Well," Shuuichi says, "I'm fine, as you can see."

Seiji hums, and that smile of his quirks up a bit into something genuine.

Shuuichi's not been in the weak autumn sun long; there is no reason for the heat on his neck. "What?"

"You're in your school uniform."

"So?"

"It's Saturday."

The heat has reached Shuuichi's cheeks.

Seiji laughs, and it's entirely too bright; it has him closing his eyes, body bending slightly forward, hands clutched at his stomach.

"It's not funny!" Shuuichi says, grabbing him by the wrist to pull him from this– this _scheme_ he's come to do, because it is always schemes with Seiji.

Seiji tosses his head over his shoulder, hair fluttering, half-covering his right eye. "Take better care of yourself, Shuuichi-san. Studying yourself to death in the dark is no good."

He twists his mouth. "It's not... completely dark in there."

"That's what you took away from what I said?"

"I have to learn my family's techniques," he says, fingers pressing onto Seiji's bony wrist, encircling it, capable of snapping it. Uncomfortable by this intrusion of a thought, Shuuichi steals his hand away and tucks it behind him, guilty eyes on the ground.

"None of us ever have to do anything," Seiji says, which is the last thing Shuuichi had ever expected of him.

Shuuichi flits his head up to see what sort of expression such a statement would bring on the shallow angles of Seiji's face, but if anything other than polished porcelain had ever been there, he'd missed it.

"Do you need help in working out your family's scrolls?" Seiji asks, benignly enough, but it's like lightning has struck between the two of them.

" _No_ ," Shuuichi replies, glowering, but this would be the same answer he would give were he drowning.

"Really?"

He hesitates. He shouldn't, this should be engraved in his very being, but Shuuichi hesitates when he repeats, "Really." And, changing the subject; ending it, really: "I'm fine. You can go."

"I can," Seiji acknowledges, taking a step back, twirling with all the grace the paper doll lacked, his back to Shuuichi, "but I think I won't. Show me around your house, Shuuichi-san. It's very nice. And I'm your guest."

The _nerve_. "You invited yourself here!"

"Yes, so don't waste the opportunity."

"Did you come here just to bother me?"

Seiji's smile as he turns is inscrutable. "Show me around your house, Shuuichi-san. Please. You didn't last time."

Last time, when he'd sauntered over like he belongs here – much like today – and they'd exorcised, together.

Today there is no youkai to vanquish. It is the art of doing so. And Shuuichi will do it alone.

"I can show you the way out," Shuuichi says, walking as he means to do exactly that.

Seiji's shoes patter softly on the engawa, and then whisper over the smooth stones on the pebbled path to the main house. "There will be a meeting tomorrow," he says.

That gets Shuuichi's attention. As Seiji had intended; Shuuichi has learned this much. He turns to him. "You should have said that sooner. Where's it gonna be?"

Briefly, there is meaning in Seiji's smile, but it is gone so quick Shuuichi cannot put a name to what he had seen. "My house."

Of course it is.

"It will be good to see you there," Seiji says, now stepping in front of Shuuichi, leisurely walking ahead with time the least of his concerns. His voice slides off his shoulders as he adds, "I'm looking forward to what you'll share with us." Speaking as if Shuuichi's going is a given. Speaking knowing there is little Shuuichi could offer or flaunt to a congregation of the most experienced exorcists. The closest he has is the family's secrets written onto crumbling paper to bring that very thing to life – and, in the two weeks he has given himself headaches over the scrolls, what he has to show for it he would never dare let others see.

He needs to learn, and his own lessons are taking him nowhere. Perhaps he needs another set of eyes to watch and judge his wrongs. A set of eyes never crinkled by their perpetual smile.

He curls his fists, fingernails biting, and lets go as he catches up to Seiji, swinging in front of him. "Could you– could you see me perform a paper spell? And tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

Seiji crosses his arms, turning his face up to the pale autumn sky. "I'm not very familiar with paper arts, since this was specific to the Natori clan," he says, "but I know enough of other techniques I could offer some insight."

Shuuichi's exhale, hoarded without realizing, is a stutter. He has asked for help. There is some relief in having asked – two weeks spent sweating alone, going blind in the dark, have not been good to him – but there too is anger, pointed at himself, for having to do it. And to _Seiji_.

He's expecting a laugh from him, a smile sharpened by condescension. But when Seiji turns his head down, there is only curiosity in his eyes. His mild amusement is there, as always, but no greater for what Shuuichi has asked. If anything, it is eager too, in flashes that come and go as the sunlight behind the clouds plays its tricks.

"Okay," Shuuichi says, carefully watching those light tricks, white across the dark of Seiji's eyes, "okay, let's go to the storage room-"

"No," Seiji says, calmly, "not there."

"What? Why not?"

"It houses your family's work. I'm not a Natori; I have no right to see it. Nor your scroll. I can only offer my help in what I already know compared to what you do."

Shuuichi's mouth falls open a bit, a sentence unsaid because none exists in the tip of his tongue – his surprise and confusion is wordless. But he manages, "That's a thing?"

"Exorcism is a business, not a collaboration," Seiji says, as bored as if commenting on the weather, but when he looks at Shuuichi, none of the nonchalance makes it to his eyes – there is steel there, older than fifteen years. "Each family protects what they create so no one else can steal it from them, and in turn their name or standing. It's how power is born."

"Exorcists are supposed to hunt youkai, not each other." It's out of Shuuichi before he knows it, spoken without a thought, feelings verbalized from their intensity.

Seiji, for once, is the one who blinks at him with widened eyes.

Shuuichi is so startled by him being anything but assured that he stammers a continuation. "We can– we can go somewhere else for the spell, fine, but you can read my scroll. I'm a Natori, and I say it's okay. Otherwise you'll just be guessing what I'm supposed to do instead of knowing for sure." He crosses his arms, cloth bunching at the elbows. "Anyway, I... I don't think you're one to steal others' techniques. You might be more stubborn than me. Are you coming?" he asks, eyes elsewhere.

"Lead the way," Seiji says after a pause, smallest smile hinted in his voice.

Seiji patiently waits a good distance from the storage room as Shuuichi gathers what he needs. He doesn't even sneak a glance at it to see what might lie inside – he keeps his eyes skyward, mouth flatly pensive. Then Shuuichi takes them to a spare room inside the house.

He lays the paper doll in a circular hex inscribed in chalk. He sits on his knees, body bent forward over the paper doll to cast it in shadow, hands clasped in semblance of prayer, and with a tremor in his voice begins the spell.

The doll raises its head as if sick. It does nothing more, and this is even less than before. 

Shameful heat spreads on Shuuichi's cheeks. "It was moving before," he explains, mumbling, "just... aimlessly."

Seiji ignores that, which Shuuichi isn't sure is any better than the mockery he'd anticipated. "Your posture is too rigid. I can tell without looking at what the scroll says that you're too rigid." He grabs the scroll now, reading it with impressive disinterest. Here is another family's secrets and he cares not. It must be forced politeness – who wouldn't want to acquire such knowledge this readily? In the room's kinder light, Shuuichi sees Seiji's eyes flit back and forth as he reads. "I can see why you were having difficulty with this. It's very metaphorical." 

"So I just need to sit different?" 

"Instead of hunching over the paper, sit with your back up but relaxed. Like you were made of paper yourself. Also, speak better."

Shuuichi bristles. "What do you mean 'speak better'?"

"Your pronunciation is correct," Seiji says, setting the scroll aside, "but your cadence is lacking. Spells require a rhythm of sorts; they're not just words, otherwise anyone regardless of spiritual ability could make them work. You're saying the spell instead of believing it." 

"That's stupid. I have to perform, is what you're saying? It's just a spell!"

Seiji smiles, placid as a well-fed cat. "Then why are you struggling with it? Perform, Shuuichi-san."

His expression discordant with his words makes Shuuichi's spine stiffen, and then he remembers he's not supposed to do this. Forcefully, he relaxes, shoulders falling. He exhales as he brings his hands to his chest, and with his mind slinking to belief in himself, that he will get the paper doll to move, he speaks.

The doll twitches, and a spark of hope upsets Shuuichi's inner peace. It is snuffed moments later when the doll flattens as if it had never moved.

Frustration spills from his throat. "I don't get it! I'm so close!" 

"Hmm. As far as I can see, you're doing everything correctly–" There is a flicker across Seiji's eyes as he snaps his head up, holding Shuuichi's gaze as solidly as if it were in his hands. "As you say the spell, what are you thinking about?"

Shuuichi pauses. "Nothing in particular. That I want the spell to work, I guess?"

"There's the problem. Envision the path you want the paper doll to take, not just the destination. The paper can't think, so you have to do that for it."

This is the convoluted logic of exorcism incantations that shouldn't surprise Shuuichi – by now, he's witnessed plenty of its idiosyncrasies – but he is. "That's it?"

Seiji nods. "You weren't aware of this prerequisite, but see for yourself. Think of something that doesn't exist and you'll see the paper gets as confused as it was without it being told what path to take. Because with no path, the destination might as well not exist."

Shuuichi draws his bottom lip in, thinking. _Something that doesn't exist._ The annoying romanticism of exorcism's foundations still swirls in his mind, and the thought comes swiftly to him. _Soulmates. They don't exist_. He thinks it with what should be confidence, but his inhale is shaky, and his hands fumble in refinding the nooks in each other. He tries the spell again.

The paper doll throws itself to Seiji's knee.

Seiji raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Wh-" Shuuichi starts. He gets no further because he has nothing to say. Nothing coherent, anyway. At a breathtaking speed, his heart has lurched to a beat that will get it ripped off his chest cavity. His vision swims from the consequent blood rushing to every part of him. It's in his ears too, a rapid, skin-thin thumping.

"I said to think of something that doesn't exist," Seiji is saying past the private bedlam in Shuuichi's ears. He's amused by the mistake, ignorant of its reasons. "I assure you I am quite real, Shuuichi-san."

That should not have happened. Soulmates don't– _Matoba Seiji_ , in unctuous smiles and hair tickling the sharpness of his chin, is not–

Heart like a frightened rabbit's, heat like the zenith of summer, Shuuichi swipes the doll back and tries the spell again, now thinking of a sibling he does not have; surely that will also stir the doll and prove Seiji wrong because the paper will move even in the face of non-existence.

The doll is lifeless.

"There you go," Seiji says, deaf to the mess in Shuuichi. "Why the difficulty in telling what is real from what's not?"

"I thought of something that doesn't exist!" Shuuichi says, too insistently, too much like a whine. He's looking at the floor. He must. "It was a fluke or something!"

Seiji's hum is unconvinced.

"It doesn't exist!" Shuuichi insists, snapping his head up to find Seiji's smile for once folding the smooth skin around his eyes, impossible to ignore. The wood beneath Shuuichi is smoking and will burn through soon. So he hastily stands, and somehow no silhouette of his knees chars the floor. 

"If you say so," Seiji says. "Sit back down, Shuuichi-san. Try it with something that does exist, now, but picture the path the doll will take."

"Later. I-" He huffs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his fiery palms, light-snakes and fireworks erupting behind his lids. "I need a break." He presses firmer onto his eyes, bites the inside of his cheek. "I think you should go."

"How dull." Shuffling, drawing nearer, and a finger flicks Shuuichi's head.

"Hey!" he says, dropping his arms, seeing Seiji so close to him that his eyes blur, his stomach flips and flops.

"Good luck, Shuuichi-san," he says, with the same smug, even tone despite leaning too close to Shuuichi and his hot turmoil. That he cannot sense it is a small mercy. Then he leaves, and Shuuichi is the most grateful he has ever been.

And confused. And flustered. And wanting to be anyone else.

Without Seiji there, he relaxes a little – only a little, because Shuuichi has Seiji's face perfectly remembered and etched behind his eyelids, and just blinking to see him there keeps his heartbeat unsteady.

Not a month has yet passed since they met, but in that period of time they've been acquainted, it feels like multiple lifetimes have gone by. Shuuichi has never known anyone more astoundingly self-assured to the point it leaked from them like ink, marring anyone in the vicinity. No one that young should carry themselves with such ease – no one should know what he knows. But Matoba Seiji defies all expectations. It's intriguing, maybe even a bit jealousy-inducing, but the boy is infuriating. His talents are too refined, his smiles too pointed, his laughs too false.

He cannot be who was born to balance and complete Shuuichi. The concept itself is laughable and even more infuriating than Seiji. As if people have no choice in who they wish to be with. Shuuichi can't accept this being forced upon him, and he won't accept it being that conceited, indomitable, graceful Seiji–

Shuuichi makes a noise and covers his face with his hands. _Calm down_ , he tells himself, willing the warmth to abate. _It was a fluke. The paper had been acting weird all day. You haven't mastered it yet; your power was out of control_. _That's all it was._

 _Test it again, and you'll see it wasn't,_ a traitorous voice in his head suggests.

" _No_ ," he says aloud, voicing refusal to make his choice surer. "It was a fluke."

He repeats it like a spell and believes it quicker than the one with real power that had bloomed from the cause he now denies.

But still the other voice sounding just like himself wonders in silence, its presence felt in its muteness and ignored with every raised paper thereafter.


End file.
